


When September Ends

by sherlockhasthetardis



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Bullying, Child Abuse, Comfort, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Self-Harm, mormor, self-injury, teacher/student relationship, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockhasthetardis/pseuds/sherlockhasthetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen year old Jim Moriarty is bullied and has an abusive father. Sebastian Moran is a new English teacher at Jim's school. Mormor; teen!Jim teacher!Sebastian AU. TRIGGER WARNINGS: ABUSE, BULLYING, SELF-HARM/SELF-INJURY, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, GAY-BASHING AND HOMOPHOBIC SLURS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty nervous about this story, because it's teen!Jim and because of the sensitive material. So any comments are very much apppreciated :)

Eighteen-year-old Jim Moriarty sat in the back of his first period English class on the first day of his senior year. He stayed silent, headphones in, playing his favourite Rossini overture so loud that the person next to him could hear it. Well, they would have been able to hear it, had anyone been seated next to him. But nobody ever sat within a five desk radius, and Jim liked it that way.

The teacher walked in then; young, no more than twenty-five, well dressed, and hipster glasses. Jim would be lying if he said that this new teacher wasn't hot and very much his type.

The teacher set down his leather bag at his desk and stood with his hands on his hips, clearing his throat and looking expectantly at the classroom full of blazer-clad boys. "Much better," he said when they had all taken their seats and stopped whispering. Jim smirked to himself, genuinely impressed.

The young teacher looked around the room, surveying every student's face until his eyes fell on Jim. "You. Headphones, out," he commanded, making the motion of pulling out an earbud. "My Chemical Romance can wait until after class. Listen to my gorgeous voice for this hour, not Gerard Way's." Jim chuckled and took out his headphones, putting his phone away for now in his blazer pocket. "It was Rossini," he corrected before the teacher could move on. "Not My Chemical Romance. I don't listen to them."

The teacher seemed genuinely surprised and even a bit impressed. "My apologies," he said to Jim, holding his hands up as if in surrender before turning and addressing the class. "My name is Sebastian Moran, but you will all call me Mr. Moran unless you'd like to see if there's a life after this one. My default is to be as nice as possible unless you give me a reason not to be, in which case I can be very unpleasant indeed. You will do exactly what I ask of you, and don't try to give me excuses because I've already used them all before you." This earned him a chuckle from the class and a smile from Jim. So far, Mr. Moran was well on his way to doing what no other teacher had managed to do: earn Jim's respect. "Questions? No? Good. Now, who here has ever heard of The Great Gatsby?"

***

After class, Jim packed quickly and put his headphones back in, wanting desperately to avoid running into anyone in the corridor. He was almost at the door when Mr. Moran stopped him by standing in front of Jim and putting a hand on the Irish teen's chest. Jim flinched and took a step back, immediately pulling out his headphones on the swell of the violin.

"Was that really Rossini?" he asked, smiling softly down at Jim. Jim nodded silently and held out his phone for his teacher to see, and even offered an earbud so his teacher could hear. Mr. Moran listened and nodded, his smile widening a fraction.

"I'm impressed, James," he said, handing the earbud back.

"It's Jim," he instantly corrected, tugging at the sleeve of his itchy blazer. "Not James."

"Well then, Jim," Mr. Moran said, running a hand through his light hair. "I'm genuinely impressed. And you seem like you're a smart kid."

Jim just shrugged, glancing back at the door. "Can I go to my class now, sir?"

The teacher laughed, waving Jim off. "No Rossini or Bach or whatever tomorrow, okay?" he reminded, waving Jim off with a wink.

***

Jim managed to keep his head down and avoid any attention throughout the rest of the day, but his mind kept going back to English class, or more specifically, Sebastian Moran. The tiniest detail – from how his bright blue eyes were the exact opposite of Jim's, to how his cufflinks looked like little TARDISes – gave Jim butterflies. All of which was terrible. It was bad enough being the only gay kid at school, but to then have a crush on his probably straight and very much off-limits teacher? Horrid. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't even notice Carl Powers coming up behind him until he was shoved into the nearest wall.

"Jimmy the fag, welcome back," Carl sneered, pressing Jim's face up against the brick.

"Oh, always a pleasure, Bigfoot," Jim quipped, rolling his eyes. Carl's insults were so unoriginal and the beatings were so routing that he could predict the details of every one. Normally Carl would fire off another insult or two before letting the punches fly, but it was the first day back and he hadn't hit Jim all summer, so he didn't waste any time.

It started off simple enough, spinning Jim around and concentrating most of the hits on the Irish teen's stomach and a few on the shoulders, and gradually the shots got higher and higher until Carl decided he's had enough. "Great to see you again, Jimmy," he said cheerily, patting Jim on the shoulder and sauntering off to swim practise.

Jim stood there, fuming and glaring at Carl's retreating form. One day, he thought to himself. Oh, I'll get you, Powers. He waited a few minutes longer before getting up and starting his walk home.

***

Jim hated going home. And not in the way most eighteen-year-olds hated going home. Because most eighteen-year-olds didn't live with abusive, alcoholic fathers. So Jim dreaded the inevitable part of every day where he had to return home to the dick he called "Dad" and get the shit beaten out of him.

Jim took a breath and quietly opened the squeaky front door. When his father didn't immediately call out or appear from the kitchen, Jim allowed himself to hope that maybe he had already passed out or was at the pub around the corner, drinking with his mates. So he quickly went to go up the stairs to his room, and his heart fell when he saw his father at the top, beer in hand.

"Hiya, Dad," he mumbled, ducking his head.

His father lumbered down the steps and grabbed Jim's chin, jerking the boy's face up to look at him. "Have more respect when speaking to your elders, James," he slurred, his stale alcohol breath rolling off his lips and onto Jim's face.

Jim winced, but couldn't get out a response, as his jaw was being squeezed too tight. So his father took that as an excuse to hit him, and unlike Carl Powers, he could actually hit. Jim didn't know how his father managed to hit so forcefully and so accurately with a beer bottle in his other hand. All he knew was that at the end of it all he was lying at the foot of the stairs; blood on the cut made by his father's wedding ring slamming into his forehead, new bruises forming all over his pale skin, and a rib that felt close to cracking. He waited until he heard his father shuffle off in search of more alcohol before picking himself up and running to his room, closing and locking the door.

Jim's room was his safe place, the one place where he didn't have to pretend like everything was okay. So he sat on the floor with his back against the wall and thought over everything that had gone wrong that day, every bad thing he had felt, and what he could have done to deserve it all. He felt a single tear slide down his cheek and he sat up, reaching for the Swiss army knife he kept in the front pocket of his backpack and flicked open the blade. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal row upon row of cuts and scars in various stages of healing. He bit his lip and pressed the blade to an unmarked patch of skin, feeling the relief flood him as the blood slowly trickled out of the new wound. So he cut again, and again, and again, feeling better and better each time until he was emotionally drained.

He stood and went to the loo adjoined to his bedroom, rinsing the cuts and the blood stained blade in hydrogen peroxide. Cleaning up after himself and making sure that his cuts and knife were sterilised were the only ways he hadn't gotten caught yet, and hopefully never would.

He showered and changed into pyjamas immediately afterward and easily finished all of his assignments. He went to bed early, not wanting to risk going downstairs in search of food to quell his growling stomach in case his father was down there and decided to hit him again. So he fell into bed with his copy of The Great Gatsby, breezing through the first couple chapters, which they had been assigned as homework. He set the book down next to the photo of his Mam and him at the zoo in Dublin when he was four and looked at the photo for a few minutes, having to bite down on his lip to keep it from trembling. He reached up and flicked off the light before he could start crying, whispering a soft "Love you, Mam. Miss you," before falling asleep.


	2. Half-Truths and Evasions

Jim groggily blinked against the sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window. He rolled over and slid out of bed, dressing sluggishly in his uniform and packing up his school bag. School had been going for a week and a half now, and Jim had already fallen into his routine: wake up, eat breakfast if it's safe, school, lunch, school, home, get hit, homework, sleep. In that order.

Mostly all of his classes were boring, save for Physics and English. Physics wasn't boring because it provided a slight challenge for him, and English wasn't boring because Mr. Moran somehow managed to make it interesting, despite Jim's idiot classmates. The books were good and the things Mr. Moran talked about actually made Jim think. Plus, Mr. Moran was big on creative writing, and Jim had an entire spiral notebook full of his writings that he always carried with him; everything from poems to short stories to mind ramblings that he was sure would get somewhere eventually, but he hadn't figured out how just yet.

Jim slipped out of his room and tip-toed in his socks to the stairs, hoping that his father was sleeping off a hangover or already drunk. But then as he took his first step down the stairs, his dad emerged from his bedroom, shuffling down the hallway.

"Trying to run away from me, Jimmy?" his dad slurred, grinning and coming up behind Jim. He grabbed the teen by his collar and Jim stiffened.

"No sir," Jim said, squeezing his eyes shut and keeping his back to his father. "Just going to school."

His dad grew immediately angry, pulling the teenager up and pushing him against the wall. The older man drew back his fit to hit his son, but was so intoxicated that his fist collided with the wall rather than the teenager's face. Grumbling with anger and frustration and shaking his hand, his dad opted instead to throw Jim down the stairs. Jim curled into a ball, holding his ribs and his bleeding mouth until his dad shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen, stepping over his bleeding child. Jim waited until he heard his father moving around plates and chairs to get up and run out the door to school.

***

When he made it to school, his lip was still bleeding and class had already started, but his ribs no longer ached. He quietly slipped into English class, avoiding Mr. Moran's look and getting out his things. He smiled when the teacher – who often paced around the classroom during lectures – dropped a box of Kleenex on Jim's desk and kept walking, having seen the blood dripping down Jim's chin from his lips.

Class went on normally, with many eye rolls from Jim at idiotic comments by his classmates, and exasperated sighs from his teacher at the same comments on occasion. When the bell rang, Jim stood and got up, packing quickly and hoping to leave without getting Mr. Moran's attention. But as he got to the door he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around to see his teacher raising an eyebrow at him.

"How's the lip?" he asked, motioning to the bad cut on Jim's no longer bleeding lip.

Jim shrugged, running his tongue over it to try and get off the dried blood. "Fine. Why?"

"Because it was bleeding, Jim," his teacher said. Jim had expected him to laugh, but Mr. Moran just looked genuinely concerned. "What happened? Did you get in a fight or something?"

Jim just shrugged again, knowing full well that he couldn't – nor did he want to – get into the discussion of how his father beat him. Because if he did then his Dad would be sent to jail and Jim would be put into foster care, and then gone were his dreams of Oxford. So he kept his mouth shut about that and instead said, "Fell down the stairs." Which was partially true.

Mr. Moran narrowed his eyes and looked at him carefully, then sighed. "Fine, you don't want to talk about it, I get it," he said, turning around and going back to his desk. "But when you do feel like it, I'm here, okay?" He scribbled something down on a piece of notebook paper and then walked back to Jim, handing it to the Irish teen.

"Your phone number?" Jim said, raising an eyebrow at his teacher.

Now it was Mr. Moran's turn to shrug. "I probably shouldn't, but it's not like I'm saying you should come over for dinner. It's just if you have an emergency or something, okay?"

Jim nodded, suppressing a slight smile and putting the slip of paper in his pocket. "Thanks. But I'm late for physics," he said, turning and leaving.

***

Jim was walking home next to the river, headphones in and whistling to himself. He was distracted and unfocussed, feeling oddly happy for the first time in a while. But that meant that he didn't notice Carl Powers come up behind him and yank his bag off his shoulders.

"Oi!" he shouted, pulling out his headphones and reaching for his bag. Carl laughed and pulled it just out of his reach, his long arms and broad shoulders making it impossible that Jim would ever get it. So Jim just stood there while Carl opened it and looked at the contents.

"Hmm.. Physics, Latin, no.. Oh! I know! English," he said, grinning and taking out Jim's copy of the Great Gatsby. Jim clenched his jaw and took a step forward, but by the time he made a grab for it Carl had thrown the book into the river.

Furious, Jim lunged at Carl and gave him a well-placed knee to the groin. That left Carl on the floor, moaning in pain. Jim grabbed his bag back and started running towards his house. He followed the bend of the river and saw his book on the pebbled shoreline. He bent down to grab it and flipped through the pages, only to find it completely destroyed. Sighing, he kept it in his hand as he walked the rest of the way home.


	3. Something Like Toy Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief warning: this chapter has some pretty nasty gay bashing by Powers. Obviously I'm completely against it, but still, I recognise how it can be triggering for some people, so if it is, skip to the end of the chapter and read a summary that I've posted there.

Jim managed to get through class the next day with his ruined book, looking over at Carl Powers on occasion and almost smiling when the bully's smug smirk vanished at the sight of Jim's glare. But Jim knew that there was no way he could keep working with his copy, even though he had already read The Great Gatsby more than once. He couldn't afford to buy himself a new copy - hell, he could barely afford to buy himself lunch - his dad didn't care enough to bother buying him one, and using his Mam's old copy was out of the question. So he waited until class was over and went up to his teacher's desk, setting the soaked through copy in front of him.

"It fell in the river on my way home from school," Jim said, leaving out the details about Powers and it being thrown off the bridge.

Mr. Moran picked up the book and smirked slightly. "That's funny, because I heard Carl Powers bragging to his mates about how he threw it in and then you kneed him in the crotch, Jim," his teacher countered, looking up at Jim and... was that a wink? No, it couldn't have been. Teachers never wink at their students.

Jim smiled, shrugging. "Powers lies a lot. But the point is my book is ruined and I can't get another copy," he said, hoping he wouldn't have to explain why he couldn't get a new book.

Mr. Moran looked at him carefully and thumbed through the pages of the book before opening his desk draw and pulling out a copy. "This is the one I used in high school. Didn't write anything in it, so it's clean. And yours," he said, giving the book to Jim and putting Jim's copy in his draw.

"I... Thanks. A lot," Jim managed, leafing through the book before nodding and slipping it into his bag. "Really."

He left and ran through the corridor to his upper-level Physics class, sliding into his seat right as the bell rang. He didn't bother listening to the lecture; he hardly ever did, as the teacher was rubbish at explaining things and it was so simple to use the textbook to teach himself. So he sat in his desk and flipped through the copy of the Great Gatsby Mr. Moran had given him, smiling a bit. Mr. Moran had lied when he said the copy was clean, there were spots where he had scribbled notes in the margins, or even written angry swears directed at the characters.

Jim couldn't help but smile wider at seeing his teacher's teenage thoughts on certain characters, and knowing that the man would grow up to teach the very same book. He flipped through quickly and took out an old spiral notebook where he kept his creative writing; things ranging from poems to short stories to unfinished novel beginnings and even the occasional piece of aimless mind rambling. Today was a mind rambling sort of day. So he sat in his desk and wrote while his teacher lectured on the properties of quarks.

***

Jim walked through the busy corridor full of lockers and shouting students, quickly getting what he needed and leaving. He made it into the corridor where his English and Physics classes were and saw Carl leaving Mr. Moran's classroom. He ducked his head and started to walk faster, freezing when he heard Carl shout. "Oi! Faggot!"

"How can I help you, Bigfoot? If you're looking for a boyfriend the answer is a definite no," he quipped, smirking to himself. His smirk vanished when Carl shoved him against the cold brick wall, his head making a loud smack on impact.

"You think I'm a fag, gayface?" Carl growled, pushing Jim further and further into the wall. "You got a little crush on me? Do I look gay to you?!"

Jim had opened his mouth to say something but was immediately silenced by Carl's fist slamming into his jaw. "I'm nothing like you, alright?" Carl shouted, accentuating that statement with another punch. "Nothing," punch, "like," punch, "you!" Jim coughed, some blood spitting out and landing on Carl's face. The swimmer looked like he was going to pull back for another punch when someone grabbed his fist.

"Headmaster's office, Powers. Now," he commanded, letting go of the bully's fist. "Go. I'll meet you there in a minute."

Carl glared at both Mr. Moran and Jim before picking up his backpack. "Welcome to hell, fag," he mumbled to Jim.

"Oh, I'm familiar with it," the Irish teen quipped, dabbing the blood off his mouth with his blazer sleeve. He watched the taller teenager stalk off towards the Headmaster's office for a moment before bending down to pick up his dropped bag and phone.

"Oi, you're not leaving," Mr. Moran said in a softer tone. He reached out a hand, presumably to put a hand on Jim's shoulder, but the teenager flinched so he dropped it. "This happens a lot, then?" When Jim didn't respond and obviously wasn't going to, his teacher sighed and tried again. "Is he the one that gave you the split lip yesterday?" This time Jim chuckled slightly and shook his head.

"I'm fine, Mr. Moran. I can handle this," he said, picking up his bag at last and standing straight. "Thanks for caring, though, really."

His teacher sighed and shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Sure, Jim. Sure. You've got my number, so if whatever did give you that split lip comes back, call, okay?"

Jim nodded, smiling slightly at his teacher and walking back down the corridor. "Thanks for the book," he called as he left.

***

Going home would be too dangerous, Jim decided, as his father always got furious when he saw any injury on the Irish teen that hadn't been caused by his own hands. So he went to the library instead, sitting in a room in the far back and doing his homework. He loved going to the library; nobody bothered him, he could read all the books he wanted without hearing shouting or getting dirty looks. The library was a safe place.

Jim didn't leave the library until all of his homework was done and he was starting to get hungry, and even then he didn't go home, but rather to a cafe a few blocks away. He ordered himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and was sitting by himself reading Looking for Alaska when someone familiar walked in the door.

"Jim?" his teacher asked, eyebrows furrowing. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home?"

Jim just shrugged, setting down the book he was reading. "I got hungry. Shouldn't you be grading papers, Mr. Moran?" he countered, smirking and motioning for his teacher to join him.

Mr. Moran laughed and did just that, sitting across from the shorter boy. "Touche. And call me Sebastian outside of school, Mr. Moran makes me feel old," he said, instantly holding up a hand when Jim opened his mouth to say something witty. "Don't even think about it, smart arse."

Jim chuckled, holding up his hands and leaning back in his chair. "Yes sir, Sebastian," he said, his smirk turning into a rare, genuine smile. The waitress came by and gave Jim his tea, immediately turning and focussing all of her attention on Jim's teacher. She took his order, laughing and flirting the whole time, but Jim couldn't tell if his teacher was flirting with her as well. He was being nice, of course, and laughing at her jokes, but there was none of the banter that Jim usually noticed with people flirting. The waitress left and hurriedly came back with Mr. Moran's coffee, smiling and batting her eyelashes, making Jim wrinkle his nose in discomfort.

"Well that was a bit much," Mr. Moran said when she had left, sipping his coffee.

Jim furrowed his eyebrows at his teacher. "Why? She obviously likes you. And wouldn't most men think she's fit? I mean, I wouldn't know," he said, trailing off towards the end.

Mr. Moran chuckled and set down his coffee, drumming his fingers softly on the table. "Yeah, I suppose most straight men would. But I wouldn't know," he said casually, watching to see Jim's reaction. "How's your lip doing, by the way?"

 _Oh, so he's gay? Or bi... No, definitely gay; had he been bi he would have said something about thinking she's fit or not. So he's gay. Well that explains how mad he got in the corridor with Carl, then._ "Better, thanks," Jim said, showing none of his thought process in his expression.

"Still not going to tell me who did it yesterday?" the older man pressed, his eyes showing his genuine concern.

Jim shook his head, eyes going down to his tea. "I told you, I'm fine. Carl's a dick, but I've got it sorted," he said, keeping his eyes downcast.

Mr. Moran sighed, lowering his voice. "Look, Jim... I heard what he was saying to you, okay?" he said, keeping his eyes on Jim's expression. "I don't know if it's true or if it isn't-"

"That I'm gay?" Jim interrupted, looking up at his teacher and chuckling. "Yeah, I am. I thought everyone knew, that someone had put up flyers or something."

"Well, I didn't know, and I haven't seen any flyers," Mr. Moran said, smiling slightly. "But look, it's fine, okay? Carl is just.. Well, like you said, he's a dick. So not everyone's going to hate you the way he does, I promise. Besides, you've got a friend in me."

That reassurance actually made Jim smile. "Like Toy Story?" he asked. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was scared about what it would be like once he was in uni. He was worried that the whole world would be full of people like Carl, and that he'd be lonely like this forever.

Mr. Moran laughed and nodded, smiling and sipping his coffee. "Yeah. Something like Toy Story," he said, sitting back in his chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much what happened was Jim went and got a new copy of the book from Sebastian, and then Powers beat him up in the hallway. But while Carl was starting to hit him, Sebastian came out and caught him, so he sent Carl to the headmaster and gave Jim his number to call in case of an emergency (the exact line was "If whatever did give you the split lip comes back"). After school, instead of going home, Jim went to the library to work and then to a cafe to eat dinner, where he ran into Sebastian. They started talking and a waitress flirted with Sebastian, resulting in both of them coming out. The title of the chapter comes from when, at the very end, Sebastian reminded Jim that he was there if Jim ever needed to talk to anyone, saying "You've got a friend in me", to which Jim said, "Something like Toy Story?" Aren't I clever? I'm so clever.


	4. Nobody's Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same deal as last time: if homophobic abuse is triggering, then don't read this. Hell, if any abuse is triggering, don't read this. Summary will be posted at the end.

It was midnight when Jim finally made it home, having stayed with Sebastian at the cafe, chatting until it closed. He slipped off his shoes and padded quietly across the squeaky hardwood floors, conviced his dad was asleep. When he had reached the stairs he saw the light coming from the television in the living room and stopped for a moment. Against his better judgement, he set his shoes down and went over to look.

His dad was spread out on the sofa, a glass of water in his hand. He was staring with glassy eyes at the television screen, clearly not paying attention to the Viagra commercial that was playing. "You're in late," he commented, still not shifting his gaze. "Where were you?"

"The library," Jim said, tensing and glancing back at the door. It wasn't that far of a run to the stairs, he could make it if things got bad. "Why?"

"Do you know what day it is, James?" his dad asked, setting his glass down on the coffee table.

Jim froze, clenching his jaw. "Twenty seventh of September," he managed at last. "And yes, I know exactly what that means, Dad. Hell, I was holding her hand, how could I not? But it's been twelve years. Let her go."

His dad scoffed and sipped his water before setting it down on the coffee table. "Normal people can't forget a thing like that, James," he said, his voice in a monotone. "Maybe you can, but you're a freak and it was your damn fault."

At that comment Jim grew furious, feeling like something inside of him had snapped. He stepped around so that he was blocking his dad's view of the television, glaring at him. "It wasn't my fault and you know that as well as I do!" he shouted, tears welling up in his eyes, not caring about the risk and potential consequences of standing up to his dad. "I was six, Dad! Six fucking years old. And she had cancer! And cancer is nobody's. Fucking. Fault!"

With that he ran out of the room and up the stairs, grabbing his shoes on the way up and slamming the door to his room, locking the door behind him. He made it over to his bed and pressed his face into the pillow as the tears he had been fighting began to fall and the sobs wracked his chest.

"I'm sorry, Mam," he choked out between sobs. "I'm so sorry. But I wasn't my fault, I promise. It.. It wasn't."

***

Three weeks passed without a word from both his dad and Powers, and Jim had actually allowed himself the slight hope that maybe - just maybe - his life was getting better. He hadn't cut, and it had been a week since his last nightmare. He had only run into Sebastian once more, at the library, and talked to him once or twice at school. Things were going well for once, until he came home from school one day to find his dad waiting by the door.

"I got a call from one of your friends today, James," his dad said. He was completely sober, which always terrified Jim to no end.

"Which one?" Jim asked casually, though his hand still kept a tight grip on the door handle.

His dad took a step closer, glaring at the nearly shaking child. "Carl Powers," he said, watching to see if Jim had a reaction.

Jim could have sworn that his stomach knotted itself and his heart was in his mouth, but he managed not to show that on his face. "And how is he?"

"Don't you play games with me, James," his father snapped, stepping so close that Jim could feel his breath. "Do you have something to tell me, boy? Something important that you should share with your father?"

Jim swallowed thickly and straightened up, looking his dad in the eye. "Not a thing, sir."

Hi dad grabbed him by the throat, pulling him up off his feet. "I said don't play games with me, James!" he shouted, a vein in his neck bulging.

"I told you, Dad! I'm not hiding anything!" Jim said, panic leaking into his voice. "Put me down, please!"

"You're a liar!" his dad shouted, slamming Jim back against the door. "A filthy lying faggot!"

Jim froze, his eyes wide. "W-What?" he stammered, starting to shake.

His dad smirked, setting Jim down on the floor. "Oh, I knew it," he growled, eyes alight with anger. "I've thought for so long.. and then your little friend called today saying you had tried something on him at school and I knew it was true."

Jim's hand immediately went for the door handle and he flung the door open, running out of the house with his dad chasing after him. He grabbed his son and threw him down on the pavement outside their house, not caring who saw, and knowing nobody would care even if they were watching. "I knew it!" he shouted, kicking Jim square in the ribs. "You filthy," kick, "buggering," kick, "faggot! I should have killed you when I had the chance!"

Desperate to get away and knowing that his dad would kill him if he didn't, Jim ran. He ran down the street and onto the main road, running until his lungs felt like they were on fire and he didn't even know where he was, much less if his dad was still behind him. He paused for breath, looking around and seeing that his dad wasn't following and that people were staring at him like he was a ghost. It was then that he noticed the blood tricking down his temple from his hairline and that the pain in his lungs wasn't from running but from a rib. He was out of options and he knew it. So he smiled at the people like nothing was wrong and turned the corner into an alley, pulling his phone out of his bag.

He dialled the number, praying to a god that he didn't believe existed that by some miracle his teacher would pick up. "Hello?" he heard after three rings. Jim bit his lip for a moment before speaking.

"Hey.. Mr.- Umm, Sebastian. Seb," he stammered, feeling awkward and dizzy. "Look, you said to call if there was an emergency? If the thing that gave me the split lip came back?"

There was a pause and them Jim heard a scrape, like his teacher was getting out of a chair, confirmed by the sound of a coat rustling and keys jangling. "Where are you?" Sebastian asked. "And how bad are you hurt?"

"I'm... two blocks from school. East," he said, glancing around before looking down to assess his injuries. No use in lying. "Pretty bad."

He heard his teacher sigh and a car door shut. "Be there in five minutes. Don't move, okay?"

"Thanks," Jim mumbled, resting his head on the brick and wincing when he hit what must be the source of the blood.

***

Sebastian kept his promise, pulling up and getting out not seven minutes later. He looked around the street for a moment before he saw Jim, still leaning against the brick wall and nervously watching the street. He stood up straight and managed a smile at his teacher, one hand across his ribs. "Hey," he mumbled, stumbling slightly on the uneven pavement.

"Jesus...," Sebastian said under his breath, helping steady Jim. "You need to go to a hospital."

Jim's eyes widened and he shook his head, backing away from his teacher. "You can't take me there. No, you can't," he begged, panicking. "They'll ask too many questions, they'll try and make me go back. Please don't make me go."

Sebastian bit his lip and looked over Jim's wounds, eyes darting all over. "Fine," he conceded at last. "I've got some first aid supplies, and I know a guy that could help if it gets bad. It means going to my flat, but I think you're okay with that, yeah?"

"Yeah," Jim mumbled, nodding and deflating out of relief. "Thank you, really."

Sebastian gave him a small smile, helping Jim walk over to his car and get into the passenger seat. "Any time, Jim," he said, getting in and starting the engine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim came home at about midnight from the cafe, having stayed the whole time talking with Sebastian. When he got home his Dad was on the sofa, watching television. They talked (okay, yelled) about Jim's Mam's death, and we find out that she died of cancer when Jim was six, and that today is the anniversary of her death. Jim's Dad blames him for her death, causing Jim to start yelling about how nothing was his fault and to run upstairs and cry. The next scene takes place three weeks later at Jim's house. His Dad kept asking Jim if he had anything to share, and Jim insistently denied that he did over and over again, until Jim's Dad revealed that Carl Powers called him and outed Jim. His Dad began to beat him and threaten him, and Jim ran as far away as he could and called Sebastian, who came and got him. Sebastian initially tried to take Jim to a hospital for his injuries, but Jim refused, so Sebastian started to drive him to his apartment instead.


	5. Confessions and a Safe Place

"Care to tell me what happened?" Sebastian asked, coming into the room with a glass of water and a bag of ice. Jim was sitting cross-legged on the sofa in Sebastian's living room, holding a pillow to his chest and looking around. The flat was small, but well-kept; bookshelves completely full and papers littering the coffee table. What one would expect for the flat of an English teacher and bachelor.

Jim reached out a slightly shaking hand and took the glass, sipping it and pressing the ice to his head. "Not really," he said, looking down and studying the pattern of the pillow he was holding.

Sebastian raised one eyebrow but didn't say anything for a bit, sitting down in the chair next to the sofa and taking a swig of his Coke. "I've got a friend, he's a doctor. Could I... I think he should come and take a look at you. I won't tell him anything, if you don't want me to, but you need someone to make sure you're not dying and to patch you up," he said after a bit, holding his phone in his hands and looking over at Jim.

"Sure, I guess," Jim mumbled, picking at the loose threads of the pillow.

Sebastian nodded and sent the text to his friend. Not fifteen minutes later a short, sandy-haired man came into the flat with a medical bag.

"Jim, this is John," Sebastian said when he brought the other man into the room. John smiled and extended a hand, saying, "John Watson. Seb said you'd gotten yourself beat up pretty bad?"

Jim chuckled and nodded, still a bit wary of this new person. "Um.. Yeah. He wanted me to go to the hospital, but they terrify me," he lied, smiling.

John nodded, setting his bag down. "Understandable. But you're alright with me taking a look at you to make sure you're alright?"

Jim glanced over to Sebastian and, after seeing that his teacher clearly trusted this man, he nodded. Sebastian smiled softly and started to walk out of the room. "Give me a shout when he's done, Jim," he said, closing the door to what Jim had guessed was his room behind him.

***

Jim stayed silent throughout the whole physical, save for a few winces when John touched his head or broken rib. John explained everything he was doing, and told him that the rib was indeed broken and a few others were badly bruised, and that the cut on his head didn't require stitches. Jim was careful to only let him see his injuries, keeping his arms covered for fear of John telling Sebastian about the cuts there.

When Sebastian came back out John explained Jim's injuries to him and that the teenager should take regular doses of painkillers, and preferably not move more than he absolutely had to. Jim smiled and gave a friendly wave when Sebastian led his friend out, sighing and leaning back against the sofa.

"Still not talking?" Sebastian asked, getting Paramol from his bathroom cupboard.

Jim chuckled, shaking his head and taking the medicine when Sebastian brought it to him. "I told you, I've got it sorted," he said, swallowing the pill.

Sebastian didn't seem satisfied with that answer this time, raising an eyebrow as he sat down across from his student and folded his hands together. "Jim, look... I'm fine with letting you deal with Powers on your own, but this... I can't look the other way with this," he said, gesturing to Jim's head and torso. "Just tell me what's going on so we can figure something out. Yeah?"

Jim sighed, sitting in silence for several seconds while he thought things over. Normally he'd say fine, tell Sebastian and damn the consequences. But he had just sent in his application to Oxford, and he needed his Dad around to sign off on the acceptance. Or to at least pretend to. So he shook his head, looking down and biting his lip. "Look, I want to. But I can't," he said, keeping his gaze lowered. "If I'm ever getting out of here, I can't."

"Please, Jim?" Sebastian asked, quieter now. "I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to, but just tell me so you'll have a place to go if things get bad. Please?"

Jim took a breath and looked up. "Swear to god you won't tell?" he demanded.

Sebastian nodded without hesitation. "Swear on my mother's grave," he said.

Jim nodded, looking back down. "My Dad found out that I'm gay. He wasn't happy," he said calmly, no trace of any emotion in his voice. He had found in the past that things were easier to deal with if he didn't bring in emotions, and telling Sebastian only half of the truth was just another way to protect himself.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, obviously not buying it. "And when you had the split lip?" he asked. "Jim, I told you, I won't tell anyone. Hell, if you really don't want to leave, I won't make you. I just... I know what it's like. Exactly what it's like."

That got Jim's attention. "Know what what's like?" he asked cautiously, still wary of trusting Sebastian with his secret.

"Getting hit. Regularly," Sebastian said, not showing any trace of emotion.

Jim swallowed and bit his lip. "You can't tell anyone," he warned. "I need him to pay for uni, and that's the only way I'm ever going to get out of here."

"I already promised you that I wouldn't tell," Sebastian reminded him with a sad smile. "You'll be safe if you stay with him?"

"I don't know," Jim admitted after thinking for a moment. "He's... Not happy right now. Said he should have killed me when he had the chance."

Sebastian swore under his breath and ran a hand through his hair. "That's... Jesus," he mumbled, sighing and looking back up at his student. "Alright. I can't say that I agree with you about needing to keep living with the bastard, but I won't stop you for now. But if you're even a little bit scared that he's going to try something, I want you to come here. Door's always open. Deal?"

Jim smiled softly and nodded, shaking the hand that Sebastian offered to him. "Deal."


	6. Family is Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly, terribly sorry, but I lost all inspiration for this and just got it back a day or so ago. Hopefully I won't get writers block like that again. Nothing too horrible in this chapter, so you should be safe.

Jim fell asleep on Sebastian's sofa with the television on, exhausted both mentally and physically from the events of that day. He woke up a couple of hours later in a panic, forgetting where he was for a few moments. He looked around the room, remembering what had happened and why he was there. Sebastian must have put a blanket over him while he slept, but other than that everything was exactly the same. He sat up and stretched, listening for a moment. He heard papers rustling in the kitchen and followed the noise, figuring that Sebastian would be there.

His teacher was sitting at the kitchen table, a pile of half-graded essays on his left and a mug of tea on his right. He looked up and smiled when Jim came in, and Jim noticed that he'd taken off the vest and tie he normally wore, as well as taken out his contacts and put on glasses. "Feel any better?" Sebastian asked. Jim shrugged and sat down picking at his fingernails.

"Rib hurts like hell," he admitted. "Nothing new, though." He paused and looked around before sighing and motioning at the stack of papers on Sebastian's desk. "My class'?"

Sebastian nodded, setting the one he was working on aside so his attention wasn't divided between it and Jim. "Yeah. So far, they're alright." He sighed and bit his lip, drumming his fingers on the table for a bit while he worked out how to say what was on his mind. "Look... Jim," he started slowly, pausing and running a hand through his hair. "Do you think you'll be safe if you go home?"

Jim nodded instantly. "Yeah, I'm sure of it," he lied, shrugging Sebastian's worries off. "Dad says stuff like that all the time, I'm sure he didn't mean any of it. And he only hits me when he gets drunk, so I'll just throw out all the booze in the house. Keeps me safe for a good week or so."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow and stared straight at Jim, clearly not buying it. "I hope you realise that none of that shit is going to work on me, Moriarty."

Jim huffed out a breath and slumped back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Sebastian. "I'll be fine, alright?" he snapped. He hated that someone knew about this now, despite the fact that he'd been the one to tell Sebastian in the first place. "I can figure this out on my own."

"I'm not saying that you can't," Sebastian clarified. "I just wanted to make sure you'd be safe going back home."

Jim relaxed a bit, letting his arms slide down and quickly shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'll be fine," he insisted, his voice softer. "Thanks."

Sebastian nodded, sighing and leaning back in his chair. "Good. Just.. Come here if things ever look like they're going to get bad, okay?"

Jim nodded, looking down. "Yeah. Sure." He sighed and looked around the room again, his brown eyes darting around and looking at everything from the pattern of the linoleum to the pictures on the fridge. "Who's that?" he asked, pointing at one of Sebastian in an army uniform with his arm around a girl. Sebastian glanced up at the photograph in question and smiled a bit. "My little sister, Alexis. She came with me to the airport when I was deployed for the first time."

"Didn't know you had a sister," Jim said, studying the faces in the photo. They did look alike, though Alexis's hair was darker and her features more delicate. Their eyes were the same light blue, though, and you could clearly tell that they were related. "She looks like you."

"Yeah, I guess she does." Sebastian shrugged, looking back down at the pile of essays he was grading. "She's a lot younger than me, though, so people sometimes don't make the connection. I think she looks more like our Mum and I look more like our Dad."

Jim turned away from the photo and looked over at Sebastian. "You don't talk about your family much," he noted. Sebastian simply shrugged again. "There's not much to talk about. Mum died in a car accident when I was thirteen and Alexis was five. Dad never quite got over it." Sebastian stopped talking and clenched his jaw, which should have indicated to Jim not to press for more information, but Jim couldn't help it; he was curious. "Was he like mine?" he asked quietly.

Sebastian paused and looked up, meeting Jim's gaze before nodding and looking back down. "Minus the alcohol, yeah. He never touched Lex, though, I made sure of that."

Jim nodded and looked back down. "I'm sorry," he said after a bit, keeping his eyes cast down.

"You're sorry? What the hell for? It wasn't your fault."

"No, but I know how much it sucks. And it's not like you can ever get away from it. Family sticks with you, you know?"

Sebastian shrugged, looking up briefly and smiling, even though Jim couldn't see. "Still not your fault. Don't worry about it. And it's not always bad for family to stick around. Well, with Alexis it wasn't."

Jim looked up and smiled a bit when he saw Sebastian smiling. "Thanks."

"Any time," Sebastian said simply, turning back to the papers he was grading.

~~~

Jim was sitting in his differential calculus class the next day, which consisted of him and only five other seniors who had placed out of the regular math courses, when the headmaster came in. He whispered with the teacher for a few seconds before going and standing by the door.

"Moriarty," the teacher called, jerking his thumb towards the headmaster to indicate that Jim should leave. Jim sighed and got up, following the headmaster out into the corridor.

"Do you know why I've called you out of class, James?" the headmaster asked.

Jim paused a moment, thinking. "No, sir," he answered honestly. He'd been behaving himself recently; avoiding Powers, keeping his grades up, going to class. The headmaster, however, narrowed his eyes and glared at Jim. "Don't lie, Moriarty. The incident with Powers a few weeks ago?"

Jim had to resist the urge to laugh. "That? Sir, that was... Three weeks ago? Why are you coming to me now?"

"I'm coming to you now because I've just met with Powers and his parents, and they're all insisting that it must have been self-defense, because Powers never could have hurt anyone."

Jim clenched his jaw and stayed silent. Of course. Powers never got in any trouble at school, no matter what he did. He sighed and opened his mouth to speak when Sebastian came over and tapped the headmaster's shoulder.

"Everything alright, Dr. McCloud?" he asked, glancing between Jim and the headmaster.

"Well, Sebastian, remember the little incident you witnessed between James here and Carl Powers?"

Sebastian nodded, settling his hands on his hips. "Of course. Powers was beating Jim, plain and simple. Why?" Jim smirked a bit at Sebastian's description of the event, but the headmaster clearly didn't find it amusing.

"Because that's not how it happened," Dr. McCloud challenged, turning to fully face Sebastian now instead of Jim.

"But we both know it is," Sebastian countered. "It's about time Powers got punished for breaking a rule, anyways. Kid practically gets away with murder, and for what? 'Cause his parents are loaded? All due respect, sir, that's crap and we both know it."

Jim could've kissed the man after the look Sebastian's words caused on the headmaster's face. "Fine. You and Moriarty can come to a meeting with Powers and his parents tomorrow after school," Dr. McCloud said through clenched teeth, glaring at Sebastian, who was smirking. "I'll see you both then." With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and walked back down the hall, the soles of his shoes clipping against the floors.

Sebastian let out a chuckle when the headmaster was out of earshot and turned back to Jim. "'Bout time Powers got what he deserved," he said, shrugging. "You alright?"

"Yeah, 'course," Jim lied, smiling. He was terrified. He'd rather let Powers get away with everything than sit in a meeting with the headmaster and the Powers family, even if Sebastian would be there on his side. He turned without another word and walked down the hall, leaving Sebastian standing by the door. As soon as he turned a corner he sprinted, running down the hall to the bathroom and promptly getting sick. He half expected Sebastian to follow, but when he came out of the bathroom the corridor was empty. Shrugging, he walked back to class and sat down as though nothing had happened.


End file.
